


In the Touch

by MindtheGap



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anna wrangles her men, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Geno has big emotions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Sidney loves his people, To Worlds to prove GMJR wrong, catharsis writing because I'm still upset about the loss so I know the boys must be, end of 2019 playoffs, friends but enemies for the moment, lots of hockey play perspective, miscommunication predates start of fic, russian bear mode activated, sid in (almost) Russia, there will still need to be conversations but for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 20:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18556879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindtheGap/pseuds/MindtheGap
Summary: He goes to Worlds to lick his wounds, to show his prowess, to regain his confidence, to push through the hurt- to prove this season is not his end.





	In the Touch

Hands gripping hard.

Fingers soft then grasping. 

Sweat trickling down his neck. 

His back. 

His arms. 

His face. 

Grunting and panting as he pushes. 

His legs tensing, his feet sliding to the ready.

His eyes scan the expanse before him. 

Glancing at the bodies. 

His nose too cold to smell the sweat and musk. 

The crowd is loud in his ears as it creates a familiar, comfortable white noise. 

There's a taunting comment being said in Swedish to his left. He knows the words. Knows the voice. At any other time they'd be friends. In the same colors. But now Horny-no, Patric- Patric is in yellow and blue and he's wearing white and red. Neither are in black and yellowish gold. His letter is the wrong color on his chest and weighs not nearly as heavily. 

A strong hand pressed over his heart as long strands of hair brush his side. A sharp inhale against his ear.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second to refocus. To concentrate on the space between the puck and the ice. He crouches lower, placing his stick on his thighs. He glances over each shoulder to make sure that his linemates are ready. Nodding to his right D. 

Dark hair and bright eyes. Pupils blown as plush lips form wordless noises. 

As the puck starts its descent, he pulls his arm back and jerks his lower arm forward to scoop the puck from the enemy stick. Shooting it between his legs and towards his mark. Not waiting for the solid thunk of rubber meeting tape before he launches himself forward. He blocks the Swedish center. He doesn't care about his name, right now he is a piece of a team that stands between him and success. Him and proving that he is not washed up. That he is not satisfied with his position after winning three cups then being swept by the fucking Islanders. That this season does not define him. Does not say that it's the beginning of the end.

Sad eyes, blank expression, angry words and avoided promises. 

He presses deep into his inside edge to turn quickly and intercept the pass, before stepping out and pushing forward. 

The phantom press lips on the back of his neck. 

An unanswered text.

A laugh of glee as he drops to his knee and fires past Nilsson's glove hand and smashing into the back of the net. He spins around and roars in pride as his teammates-for now- throw themselves at him in celebration. 

He hears Swedish blending in with familiar tones of Russian screaming in his ear. 

He aches to not hear Canadian vowels.

Hair tickles his neck and he has to push the memories from his mind as he pushes off the wall and his teammates.

Heading towards the bench so Sasha can lead his line out. He knows that burning rage of losing after lifting the Cup. Of knowing you've been unseated as reigning champion. A part of him smiles that his-their- back to back record remains untouched.

He looks up in the stands. The blend of yellow an red jeraeys. A flash of black, of blue, of white, of green. Country jersey and jerseys from the regular season teams of the players. He can't make out faces in the crowd. 

It's better that way.

He slows his breathing. 

Ignores the ghost of lips and teeth on his hip where his jock strap presses against him. 

He thinks of avoided plans-of being swept-disappointment.

A penalty by Kucherov sends him over the boards with Sasha, Antemi, and Ilya to work on the PK. To push the yellow into their own zone. To make Nilsson dance, to be unsure which vengeful Russian would strike to prove their dominance. To make him forget he's not alone on the ice. 

Sasha is in his office. 

The Swedish power play unit is more focused on that. Patric keeps glancing back towards him. He knows best why he remains on the Penguins, how well he works at being underestimated. 

He can feel a snarky smile pull his at his lips as he meets Patric's gaze. He blinks away the echo of breathy words whispered in his ear telling him to go harder.

Winking, he spins away from the net to catch the puck and press backwards towards Nilsson. He can hear the angry Swedish spat behind him as he crosses over to run behind the net, coming behind Sasha to the top of the circle and firing hard. There's a loud clank as the puck bounces off the pipe, rebounding onto Sasha's stick for just a moment before it fires under the stick hand clipping the pipe again before dropping into the net. 

He throws himself at Sasha, roaring in his ear. The horn sounding, the crowd cheering. 

He turns and pushes back to the bench. His last shift of the game successful. He heaves a heavy sigh trying to regulate his breathing as he watches the seconds tick down to zero. He's on his feet as Maxim smacks at his arm while jumping up and down. He steals himself to not feel the compact body he's used to embracing him in victory before climbing the boards to congratulate Vasilevsky. 

The commissioner brings out the medals out for Sweden to be gifted their silver and Russia their gold. 

He feels hands on his as he removes his gloves. Long fingers and shorter, stronger ones.

Squeezing his fingers into a fist, he shakes off the feeling of invisible skin. 

Bowing his head to accept his medal. He smiles fondly and jokes with his teammates as they start to head off the ice. The fanfare post game different from lifting the Cup. 

It is exhilarating. 

It is exhausting.

It is memorable. 

It is champagne and beer wet. 

It is touching and laughter and tears. 

It is Nikita running across the locker room in his personalized Team Russia jersey. Being lifted into his arms before Nikita can crash into his tired legs. 

It is Nikita babbling about everything he saw and what they were doing without him. 

Its using his height to his advantage to find Anya as she makes her way towards him wearing her own Team Russia jersey and a smug smile. 

It's the noise level in the room some how finding a way to get louder as bodies move towards Anya. 

Towards the person behind her.

Sasha yelling something about entering enemy territory. 

Ilya laughing and saying it's about time he wore the right country's colors.

Anya sliding up to his side and taking Nikita from his hold. Whispering words of encouragement and congratulations. 

It's the tug of Nikita refusing to let go of the gold medal hanging around his neck. Not even as Anya tries to take it from his small hands.

Its Sidney's smile under a black cap as he shyly looks up at him. His 71 Malkin Team Russia jersey hanging on him in a way that only makes him want to see it pooled at the foot of their bed. Or rucked up to show the marks they will leave.

Tears welling in his eyes as he hesitates before Sidney slides his arms around his torso. Head pressing against his chest as they tighten their arms around one another. 

Anya smiling wetly as Nikita goes from playing with his medal to steal Sidney's hat. Her gentle explanation that they've been watching all his games so tightly spaced since the beginning. That while he had been bonding with his team, his family had surprised him by being there-fully.

That Anya had called and Sidney had come immediately. Apologetic and grateful.

He allows Anya to wipe at the tears on his cheeks. He can feel the smile pressed into his chest, a hidden kiss before pulling away as Nikita demands to be held by him again.

It's in the touch of victory and family that he starts to settle.


End file.
